Ravens
by Alinah
Summary: [Complete] On a bright morning in Mirkwood, tragedy strikes.


Hi!

This is a short story that broke forth when I decided to write a story for my dear fellow-writer Trinka´s birthday.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TRINKA! May many more stories and wonderful chats be in store.

Thanks to all who reviewed "Dead Gardens" - you guy are wonderful!! ((huggles))

San, thank you for your quick editing :-)

Thanks for reading this - feel free to comment!

Alinah

Rating: PG 13 (tread carefully; angst and fairly graphic violence ahead)

Dislcaimer: Still not mine - wish they were...

Dedicated to Trinka

**Ravens  
**  
A new dawn began to break; the comforting darkness of night thinning to a sickly grey. Shadows moved beneath the silent frames of the scattered trees, shadows that formed into a group; running, panting with the effort of their flight. Behind them, the sound of their pursuers grew steadily louder. The thunder of hooves, though still far off, made the ground vibrate with the foreboding of new slaughter and bloodshed. Nothing would be able to prevent their cruel destiny. Now that the blanket of darkness fled, leaving them naked to their enemies´ eyes, the group redoubled their efforts to run faster.  
  
It was their last hope of survival.  
  
The warrior knew that there was no escape. He had encountered the Hunters before and had barely managed to save his own skin. Fast they were, cruel and ruthless. There were many but he feared mainly the leaders, the two who would come down upon their enemies on shiny white steeds, swords drawn and dripping with blood. Ravens they were called, and his comrades and brothers had been felled by them as if they were young trees succumbing to the easy swing of an axe.  
  
Oh yes, he had seen them. Their eyes had been alight with bloodlust; and each severed head, each gored belly had only drawn them deeper into battle. He was sure that they were invincible. Not because their bodies could not be harmed, for he had seen his fellows draw blood, but because they cared for nothing but the kill. They were the Hunters. The Ravens. He was the Prey. It was as easy as that.  
  
The sun rose slowly, painting the fog that hovered over the landscape red. The gentle hills that rolled around them slowly emerged from the darkness, their peaks rising out of the red sea of mist like islands in a stream. The forest was falling behind, a looming presence in the warrior's back, and part of him wished to return to the deep shadows the dense growth of trees had to offer. The slim frames that still rose all around them did nothing to hide them. Yet, he had to accept his leader's orders. They were not to turn. They were not to stop. They were to deliver their treasure, no matter what the cost would be. He had never questioned their motives or their means, but right now his mind screamed at him in alarm, alerting him to his impeding doom.  
  
He could only hope that the distraction they had left behind in the woods less than half an hour ago would at least buy them a few more hours and maybe even give them the chance to find a shelter that would allow them to make a stand. He would fight if it came to it, but he preferred to be the attacker. Unused to the role of Prey, he had to force himself to run on as the sounds of their pursuers shattered the morning calm.  
  
Somewhere up front, the child began to cry. This was different from the last sound it had made: a keening wail that had split the night and most possibly set the Hunters onto their trail. No, this time it was a tired sob, broken and hitching. Even so, any sound could aid their enemies and the weeping was quickly stifled. The mother was lost to them already; they could not bear to lose the child, too.  
  
He would see to it that they would not.

.........................................................................  
  
The two Hunters reined in their horses, bringing the foam-coated beasts to a halt side by side. Their movements were of such unison that one might have expected a trained dance behind it, yet it came as natural to them as breathing.  
  
Both were clad in simple green cloaks that blended into the forest they had been riding through, yet their posture had something noble to it. Even though a certain fatigue showed in the way their shoulders drooped ever so slightly, they kept themselves upright as they sat still, allowing their mounts to catch their breaths. At the same time, two sets of alert eyes scanned the mist that rose among the trees in the early morning light.  
  
"I smell death", one of them stated. The other merely cocked his head questioningly before contradicting: "Her corpse is far behind us now. The others will find it soon. It cannot be what you smell."  
  
"Nay", came the quiet reply, "the odour that assaults me travels time rather than space."  
  
There was a prolonged silence again as their eyes met. Memories merged in their minds, and both shivered.  
  
"There was no smell of death then, not on her." The second Hunter spoke slowly, caught within a moment that had long passed.  
  
"Aye, but there was", the first insisted, "it clung to her then and has done so ever since; it is a form of death that takes the mind rather than the body. It is the crueller fate."  
  
The past loomed above them, its hungry despair ready to swallow them both. And yet they felt the events that lay behind them mingle with the present, saw once again the mutilated corpse they had found a short while ago, hanging from a tree like a hunting trophy meant to bleed dry. They had cut her down, but then left her behind. No animal would dare touch her. Honor would be bestowed upon her later, but it was not honor the Hunters had in mind now.  
  
"They are not far", the first spoke again and pointed up a hill to their right, thinning trees signalling that they were nearing the edge of the great forest. "We shall encounter them soon."  
  
Wordlessly, the second drew his sword, and together they rode on. Once again, the horses fell into step at each other's side, their likeness matching that of their riders. They galloped up the hill, going at a measured pace first, but then picking up speed even as they struggled with the rise.  
  
Horse and rider alike could sense the proximity of their foes. Sharing their eagerness for battle, there was no need for one to urge on the other.  
  
As they reached the crest of the hill, they finally saw what they had been hunting for days now. Once again, the powerful steeds that had been racing along mere heartbeats ago became still, panting statues at their riders´ demand. Only their wide nostrils showed the excitement they felt when the scent of their enemies reached them. Their white coats were glistening with sweat and took on a tinge of red when the morning light touched them.  
  
The first hunter drew his sword now, too, and together they regarded what lay before them. They were outnumbered by far, yet behind them they could already hear the thunder of their comrades who were rushing to join them.  
  
Two pale hands rose slowly, pushing back the green hoods to reveal long, raven hair.  
  
"Let the Ravens fly again", the first whispered, and the early sun rays reflected off his wide eyes when he spoke. It was as if they were mere mirrors, empty but for that which they chose to reflect.  
  
"Aye", the second agreed, his own features beautiful yet horrifying in their determination to kill, "the wolves shall fall beneath our swords, brother, and our hearts shall be the lighter for it."  
  
At their feet, the hollow at the foot of the hill lay drowned in red fog that wavered unsteadily, as if trying to block their vision. Even so, they could make out black shapes rushing forth in their hopeless attempt to outrun them.  
  
They would not.  
  
None escaped the Ravens.  
  
None fled from the Hunters to live.  
  
With a double cry, Elladan and Elrohir spurred their horses on, and the white stallions heeded their masters´ will. With great strides that kept lengthening as they went, they carried their riders into yet another battle. Yet another encounter with death.  
  
Black hair and green coats fluttered behind the elven brothers in the wind, and the blades of their swords gleamed in the growing light. They carried within them the will to fight and the hatred to slaughter, and their voices rose in a warning that would come too late for all who could hear it.

................................................................................  
  
The orc warrior turned with a snarl when the cursed elven battle cry rang over the hills. He had heard it before and knew it came mere moments before the first kill. Cowardly bastards the elves were, he thought was he drew his weapon and pushed one of his less experienced comrades in front of him as a shield. He would outsmart them this time, though. Now he knew how they fought and he would teach them that they were not as far above him as they thought.  
  
There were screeches all around him when the group answered the elves´ challenge, and the red fog swirled with the movements of blades being drawn, clubs being swung. The growing light impaired his vision, and the orc growled in angry frustration. He could hear the galloping hooves approach, yet there was nothing but a blur in front of him when the first blade struck and his comrade sank to his knees, gurgling through the black blood that gushed from his cut throat.  
  
A flash of dark hair and floating green passed the orc, and then there was nothing but more cries and shrieks. The fog softened all sound, dimming even the restless beating of the horses´ hooves. Still, what penetrated the lingering clouds was enough to outline the course of the battle. There were thumps in the white mists were bodies fell, bodies that were too heavy to be elven.  
  
The child cried out again, this time in a desperate plea for help that the orc could understand even though it was voiced in that cursed elven tongue. A grim smile appeared on the gnarled face. Where the boy was, the Ravens would go. With a smirk the orc pushed through his wildly fighting fellows, using the frightened calls as a guideline that would lead him to his kill. Finally, he was the hunter again, and the elves were the prey. It was as it should be.  
  
Elladan brought his sword up sharply, showering both himself and his horse with black liquid. Some hit his face and slipped down slowly, the smell making him gag, but only for a heartbeat. The last kill and its consequences were forgotten already as his eyes searched for the next. Without looking, he sensed Elrohir felled another foul creature in a single strike, never even slowing his steed. The movement separated them but the older twin was not afraid. He could sense their bond strengthening as it always would in battle. Even in the deepest pitches of the earth's bowls he would never lose his brother's tracks.

His stallion reared beneath him when an orc launched itself at the white steed, and Elladan smoothly flowed with the movement, leaning forward and using the momentum for another blow of his own. Both hooves and blade came down together, wreaking havoc amongst the dark creatures around them. As the light strengthened with the wakening day, it revealed the scattered bodies that surrounded them already, and Elladan´s heart soared.  
  
In front of his inner eyes, he saw his mother again, broken in body and soul when the twins had finally been able to deliver her from the orcs´ captivity. The scream for help that had silently emanated from her wide eyes rang in his soul still, hardly ever allowing him to rest. In moments like these, however, the desperate voice stilled as if she was holding her breath. As if she was hoping for deliverance. As if she was pleading for her sufferance to be undone.  
  
And so her son fought on with more dark blood coating him, mingling with his own where blades had grazed him. The young elf could feel the pressure grow with his wish to span time and space and finally slaughter those that had committed the crime that had shattered his family.  
  
Oh, he had slaughtered them already many times, over and over, and so had his twin, but there was a burning hope in his heart that one day the Valar would take pity and fling him back to the cursed day that had started their misery. How he wished to appear at his mother's side when she was still unharmed and step in front of her when the dark flood broke down upon them, keeping her safe with his sword. Undoing a future that would have broken his heart.  
  
The frightened cries rose again, and Elladan hewed on with doubled strength to drown them from his soul. The sound of pain and misery sent a fury through his veins that drove his sword through two orcs at the same time, impaling them. The blade was dragged down with the falling beasts and the elf had to force his horse into a tight circle in order to hold on to the handle.  
  
Bending down low, he wrestled the sword free. Concentrating on a task so practical cleared his mind fractionally and he became aware that the cries reached his ears, not only his heart. There were few orcs left around him, and all ran like rats would flee from a hungry cat. His instinct was to follow. He loathed to let them run, always seeing in them the ones who had shattered his mother. They were all same to him, as if no time had passed and no new generations of orcs had been born.  
  
Still, the cries were real and he could not ignore them. At the back of his mind, pushed into a corner with his gentle spirit and most of his sanity, a small voice insisted that he knew who was calling for him, yet he did not care. It was an elven voice, and this was all that mattered.  
  
Pushing his horse forward, he ploughed through the rushing orcs, swinging at the beasts and bringing down more than one, yet allowing the light voice to guide him on. At his side, he saw Elrohir rise from the fading mist, his white stallion hardly recognizable beneath the gore that covered it. Yet both steed and rider fought on strongly, drawing many orcs away from Elladan.  
  
The older twin used the momentary respite to glance ahead. Still shrouded by the fog, he saw one of the scattered trees reach into the skies in front of him. The voice seemed to pour from the silent trunk itself, and for a moment he contemplated the possibility that it was Mirkwood itself pleading for mercy, pleading for deliverance from the orcs that swarmed it. But then, as he raced closer, he quickly discovered the small elven boy who had been tied to the rough stem.  
  
The child was bleeding from numerous injuries and his eyes were almost wild with what he had been forced to see. He did not seem to be able to focus on the elf that came for him as he continued to scream with all the force that was still left in his tired lungs and raw voice.  
  
Elladan´s eyes swiftly took in the ropes that held the boy, calculating how he would have to cut them to avoid further injury to the child, and it was this distraction that cost him dearly.  
  
Stepping out from behind the tree, the orc warrior shifted his grip on the dagger he had used to cut the frightened child, forcing him to scream even louder, and threw it at the distracted elf.  
  
The older twin caught the weapon's movement from the corner of his eye, and it was only the speed of his elven reflexes that prevented the ragged blade from piercing his throat. Instead, it buried itself deeply into his shoulder. A burning pain exploded in his body and quickly spread throughout every vein, every nerve. Under normal circumstances, the shock would have downed even an elf.  
  
But these were no normal circumstances. This was a Hunt, and the Ravens would not let get anything between themselves and their prey, not as long as their strong will carried them through.  
  
The orc warrior growled in anger when the accursed creature dodged his dagger enough to avoid death, yet annoyance quickly turned to fear when the elf only swayed for the shortest instance before letting out a cry of pure wrath, fixing his burning eyes on his foe.  
  
Invincible.  
  
Maybe it was true after all.  
  
The orc stumbled backwards, suddenly insecure, and the elf's horse took the cue and raced after him. Wounded as he was, the elf managed to lift his sword. The light tunic he wore beneath his green cloak was splattered with orc blood, just like his face. Even the stallion had shed his white color for a splattered grey. Around the hilt of the embedded dagger the elf's tunic darkened quickly with his own red blood; the orc realized he must have struck his opponents life flow, but he also knew that he himself was doomed.  
  
None escaped the Ravens, certainly not twice.  
  
The orc pulled up his blade, attempting to rip open the horse's belly, but the steed had seen too many battles to fall for this trap. It swiftly severed to the right, almost unseating its rider, and the orc heard the deadly swoosh of the sword descend upon him before he felt the cold steel sink into his neck. He tried to move away, but all he succeeded in was getting the blade hooked within his armour, pulling it from the elf's hands. Sword and orc went down together, joined in death.  
  
He fell heavily, unmoving, yet still breathing, still holding on.  
  
The orc warrior's vision began to dim as his soul's darkness poured out of him to engulf him, but his open eyes were fixed upon the Raven who stumbled off his horse. Robbed of his sword, the elf ripped the dagger from his shoulder to cut loose the young child. It was one last satisfaction for the dying beast when he saw the little boy cringe from his saviour in fear before he pulled free and fled.  
  
Back into the battle where more orcs awaited him.

................................................................................  
  
Elrohir drew in a sharp breath as a sudden pain flooded his soul. He knew instinctively that he had sustained no further physical injury, and his eyes flew from the swarming orcs that surrounded him to the lone tree to his left. The battle halted as the beasts followed his line of vision, and when a dense cloud of fog had drifted past, a hoarse cheer went up from the orcs.  
  
The elf froze. The bulky shape of a horse stood head down, nosing a prone figure on the floor. Black hair was fanned around the fallen elf's head like a pool of dark blood, and the only movement to be seen was the occasional flutter of the green coat in the light breeze.  
  
Hearing the hoof beats of his nearing friends thunder down the hill behind him, yet sensing the orcs´ eagerness to prey on the weak, Elrohir pushed his horse into a mighty jump, breaking the circle of enemies he had been fighting in. The move earned him a deep cut to the leg when one orc came to his senses quickly enough to react, but he hardly felt the injury. All his senses were locked onto his brother now, onto the rapidly fading light of Elladan´s soul. He yelled out in heated anger when he realized that this day might be the death of his brother's body and both of their spirits.  
  
Focused as he was on his twin, Elrohir hardly recognized the small elven child that fled into his direction before he was nearly upon the boy. He turned his flaming eyes onto the child, his fury still burning brightly, and saw all hope drain from the small face. The big blue eyes that stared at him swiftly filled with dread.  
  
Elrohir knew he should say something, or hold out his hand in a gesture of peace, but his body and soul did not seem to be able to respond to his wishes. Then the heartbeat of his chance had passed and the little boy turned from him, fleeing towards the right.  
  
The twin gazed after him in shock, but then his horse had brought him to his brother's side and all else faded from his awareness.  
  
The elf was on the ground without even recalling that he had stopped and dismounted. All that mattered now was the massive flow of blood that poured from Elladan´s shoulder. Pressing down hard with both hands, Elrohir leaned his full weight down to seal the injury, but he could feel the blood bubble hotly against his palms.  
  
The coldness of battle fled from Elrohir when tears rose to his eyes. He looked up to see the remaining orcs rush at him, leering and holding the weapons high at the sight of their enemy's sudden weakness. The younger twin knew that he might hold off some blows if he raised his sword, but doing so he would allow his brother's spirit to flee.  
  
Instead, Elrohir kept his hands on his brother's wound, and he lowered his head to whisper into the older twin's ear. "Dartho na nin, dartho na nin, dartho nan nin..." (Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me...) Over and over again the elvish words poured from his lips as tears slipped from his eyes.  
  
He could feel the orcs closing in but did not raise his head to look at them.  
  
He could hear their horses neigh and prance around their masters, and his heart wept for them.  
  
He could hear the ground rumble at the approach of the rangers, and prayed they would be on time.  
  
And still, all his soul was concentrated upon was his brother. Even when the cold song of arrows cut through the air and mingled with the cries of orcs, he continued his chant. "Dartho na nin, dartho na nin..."  
  
Orcs fell around him. Blades narrowly missed him. Horses circled them, their riders shouting harshly as their blades slashed at the screaming orcs. And still he continued, on and on and on until all time was memory and nothing remained but those three words.

..........................................................................................  
  
"Let go." The voice was gentle but urgent. Elrohir recognized it, but he could not attach a name to it. It was a man's voice, a human's. There was nervousness in it, even fear, but most of all friendly concern.  
  
Realizing with a start that his eyes were closed, the elf opened them slowly and gazed at the man who sat across from him. A piercing gaze searched his face, and only then did the man relax ever so slightly. "Let go", he asked again, "please. The blood flow was stemmed. I have bandages ready. We will take care of him. Healers have already been sent for. Thranduil will be sure to send his best. He will live."  
  
Stunned, Elrohir took in the scene around him. The rangers had set up a camp around them, shifting away the orc bodies that lay in the way but leaving the rest scattered around them for now. A fire had been lit, water heated, blankets prepared. The sun had risen above their heads, dispersing the last wisps of fog. It was a glorious day at the edge of Mirkwood forest, a day that was drenched in blood.  
  
Numbly, Elrohir allowed the ranger to lift his hands off Elladan´s injury, and watched as the man cut away the soiled tunic around the wound, quickly cleaning it. The smell of healing herbs floated in the air.  
  
Elladan´s eyes were closed in a ghastly white face, but he breathed, shallowly yet steadily. With a shaking hand, Elrohir touched his brother's forehead and then sank back in relief when he felt his twin's spirit react to his caress. They were still bound; the bond had not been ripped by death. They would stay two halves of one whole. Fresh tears began to fall silently, and Elrohir did not attempt to hold them back.  
  
Time gently slipped past them, and soon Elrohir sat quietly beside his twin, holding Elladan´s hand. He was washed and his wounds had been dressed, too. It was only now that the dreamlike stupor began to melt from him. When he heard hoof beats he lifted his head, hoping that the healers had arrived, but he quickly realized that a small group of rangers had joined the camp. The elf saw them shake their head sadly and more than one threw insecure glances into the twins´ direction.  
  
Sensing that they felt they needed his help but loathed to ask him, Elrohir rose. He was sure that his brother would not leave him, and knew that Elladan would ask him to give aid wherever it was needed. Leaving his brother with the watchful ranger, the younger elf approached the small group.  
  
"Forgive us for interrupting", one of the men said sincerely, "but we searched in vain for King Thranduil´s son. We had hoped to soften the blow of his wife's death with his child's return, yet we were unable to locate the boy. His trail leads from here into the forest, but we lost it near the small lake to the east."  
  
Elrohir nodded without a word. Dread clung to him when a dim memory emerged, a child's fearful gaze and shocked flight.  
  
"Aye", he said simply, "I will find him." He felt his horse gently nudge him into the back and he was not surprised. The faithful stallion had never left his side, and it had sensed that now it was needed. Mounting without further ado, Elrohir rode for the forest.

...............................................................................  
  
The sun played on the grass, and birds twittered merrily in the air. Summer was at its fullest, reminding Elrohir that life would return even after the harshest winters. He hoped that this grace would be bestowed upon King Thranduil, too.  
  
Only three days ago the message had reached them that the woodland king called for aid, his son and wife having been abducted by orcs. The twins and the rangers they rode with had quickly joined the search, thankful that they had been in the area, but with each passing day the doom they had felt had grown.  
  
And now doom had settled over Mirkwood for good and would never leave again. The Queen had been slain, and no new spring would ever bring back her laugher, her gentle spirit or the softness only she could bring to the stern king's face.  
  
Hope had been lost, and yet Elrohir still rode to retrieve it. If he could find Legolas, the royal couple's youngest child, there might still be hope for the king's spirit to resist the lure of the netherworld and stay. There was no doubt in Elrohir´s heart that Mirkwood would fall without her king, and deep sadness filled him at the thought. This was not the time, not yet. No elven realm should succumb to darkness.  
  
As he rode, he remembered the fear in Legolas´ eyes when he had looked upon the younger twin. Elrohir new what the child had seen, and he did not blame him for his flight. There were more than one ways to succumb to darkness, he knew, and he was aware that he and his brother had chosen one to avoid others. Their mother's fate had damaged not only her souls but theirs, too, leaving them with a boiling hatred that needed to be heeded.  
  
Therefore, the twins had chosen to bestow their dark gift back upon those who had presented it to them, riding out with the rangers in their hunt for each and every orc they could track down and slay. Elrohir knew that doing so made Middle Earth a safer place, but he also knew that both he and his twin paid a high price. They lent their souls to the madness of battle, and it was this madness that had driven Legolas away.  
  
With a sight, he looked up at the trees that grew denser around him. Even though he did not have a wood elf´s sensitivity, he could feel the upset and anger that travelled from branch to branch, from leaf to leaf. Before him, the pool the rangers had mentioned lay silent and still, the sun playing on its surface.  
  
Stiffly, Elrohir dismounted. He could sense that the child was near, his fear drifting towards him like a cold fog. He knew that the rangers had meant well, but what they had done had only driven the boy further into hiding. He had been hunted enough to last him a lifetime.  
  
Instead of looking for tracks, Elrohir simply walked to a flat rock that reached into the lake and sat down upon it. He closed his eyes and allowed the peace of the meeting between water and wood soothe his senses.  
  
"This is a beautiful place", he said out loud, "one where souls might be healed. Yours and mine, child. Yours and mine."  
  
He grew silent, and his sharp ears picked up weak sobs that drifted down from one of the trees. Quietly. Elrohir began to sing. He did not sing of sadness and mourning, knowing that these songs would come soon enough, but of night and day, summer and winter, and the order of things.  
  
At some point, a small, shivering form slipped into his embrace. Without opening his eyes, Elrohir held the child close, continuing his songs while the trees whispered around them and the sun slowly crossed the sky, warming them.  
  
The end


End file.
